by. Philip G. Steverson

Hour 1
A boy followed a sign that lead
him to an uncharted garden of his opposite.
A focused boy he was— until fragrances
and fantasies
seduced his cerebrum.
Hour 10
Balance was his ally and time
was a privilege. A privilege that he question
whenever a new minute was born.
He didn’t want to think about time;
but time thought about him.
Hour 37
While time thought about the boy,
the boy thought about the garden; with its
sweet rose water that brought rain
to any drought, daisies and lavenders birthed
with smiles as they sprout.
Hour 51
He branched out as time faded out,
getting tangled in the gardens curves and vines. Jading his vision between
spirals and straight lines; and he stayed—
bare bottomed to the wet grass of the garden.
Hour 60
Time had caught up in freshly laced Nikes.
The boy’s thoughts became external.
Convincing excuses like, “this isn’t a poem,
just words.”
“Those weren’t my actions, just verbs.”
Hour 66
Time latched onto his arm, removing him
from all pressure, exposing him back to realities of life.
Till now the boy questions where he stands
as his knees replace his feet in quick sand.
Hour 72
I’ll tell you where he stands—
no where as extravagant as the garden;
no where are peaceful.
Simply, one strapping his backpack being the
first person to every class.